


Long Way Home

by Nervawkward



Series: Balance [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23776234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nervawkward/pseuds/Nervawkward
Summary: It`s odd, thinking that this is how it had all begun with Geralt, that they can still be this even all these years later and after all they`ve been through. How he`d gone from an eighteen-year-old barely tolerated nuisance to Geralt`s… whatever he is, now. Jaskier will catch himself watching the Witcher at times, half expecting him to disappear, but he never does.Our little family, on the road to Kaer Morhen. A journey of healing and heartbreak and hope.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Balance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1712881
Comments: 163
Kudos: 398
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	1. Sometimes Things Just Work Out That Way

The road to Kaer Morhen is a bittersweet one. The conditions are harsh, yes, and they`re certainly under more threat than they`ve ever been in past travels, but for Jaskier it`s very nearly a return to normalcy. He and Geralt back on the road, joined this time around by Ciri and Yen. Camping in the middle of nowhere on uncomfortable bedrolls, hunting and scrounging for food. It`s so painfully familiar when Jaskier is so painfully _changed_ , and he spends the first week or so of their journey wandering about in the strangest fog of nostalgia, hope and loss.

It`s odd, thinking that this is how it had all begun with Geralt, that they can _still_ be this even all these years later and after all they`ve been through. How he`d gone from an eighteen-year-old barely tolerated nuisance to Geralt`s… whatever he is, now. Jaskier will catch himself watching the Witcher at times, half expecting him to disappear, but he never does.

Although sometimes, of course, it`s a little bit easier to convince himself of Geralt`s steadfast presence than others.

Jaskier is curled up on their shared bedroll, doing his very best to tunnel under the blankets while still being able to breathe. He actually _hisses_ at Geralt as the Witcher eases himself under the covers beside him, cursing him for allowing the brisk air to enter for even a moment. He forgives him the instant he feels blazing body heat, shuffling close despite Geralt`s protests.

"How are you this _cold_?" He intercepts Jaskier`s hands before he can shove them under Geralt`s arm, dodges frozen toes with some effort. "It shouldn`t be possible for you to be this temperature and still be alive."

"I don`t know what to tell you Geralt, it is and I am. Now be a proper gentleman and lend me some warmth before I perish." He shivers just a little as his body begins to recall what it is to be an acceptable temperature, and Geralt gives in with an affected sigh.

"Come here, then." He pulls Jaskier in close, body going rigid when cold hands immediately slip under his shirt to splay across his torso. "Fuck. You owe me for this."

Jaskier hides his smile against Geralt`s chest, runs his hands up Geralt`s sides and laughs when the Witcher tenses and spits some particularly colorful curses. He draws the line of no return when Jaskier attempts the lightest of touches, tickling, and he growls and surges over to pin the Bard with his not inconsiderable dead weight.

"Melitele`s _tits_ , you weigh a ton." Jaskier wheezes, laughing as he attempts to shove Geralt away, but the Witcher only mumbles nonsense into his shoulder with a warm huff of breath. "Geralt if your hair falls any further into my mouth, I will fucking _eat it_."

"You wouldn`t." He doesn`t even attempt to move, the bastard, and Jaskier jabs him sharply in the side.

"I lived in a dormitory for years at University, Witcher, you have no idea what I`m capable of."

Geralt snorts, dismissive. "I know you`re not capable of eating rolls that have fallen onto the table."

Jaskier balks, shocked. The fucking _nerve_. "That table was unacceptably and inexplicably sticky Geralt, and you know it. I`ll not court death for a bit of stale rye bread." He huffs away a lock of Geralt`s hair, pointedly, and The Witcher finally rolls back on his side with a soft laugh.

"Warm now, though, aren`t you? Brat." His eyes are so bright and kind when he smiles at Jaskier that the Bard finds he must look away, but Geralt doesn`t call him on it. He hums contentedly when Jaskier wraps an arm around him, tucking his head under the Witcher`s chin. Wraps strong arms around Jaskier in return, one hand moving absentmindedly up and down his back.

It`s all he`s wanted for so fucking long. Jaskier aches for the day it will finally feel safe. That it will feel permanent.

He snuggles in closer as Geralt crashes into the sleep the way he always does when he`s truly exhausted, adjusts his head on the Witcher`s chest until he can hear his steady heart. When it isn`t enough he reaches out with his power lightly, the way he`s been learning, and feels the comforting vibrations of _Geralt_ wash over him. Feels Ciri as she sleeps nearby, light notes like a familiar lullaby, and Yennefer`s more challenging tones. When he`s satisfied that they all feel safe, all feel _right_ , Jaskier finally allows himself to sleep. He knows the peace won`t last.

More often than not, each morning is a nightmare.

~

There`s an arm around his waist, pinning him down. Jaskier tenses, fear clawing at his throat, but he can`t force his body to move. Can`t make himself look up. He knows it`s ridiculous, knows it`s been weeks now, but a part of him can`t help but expect it. If Jaskier looks and finds that it`s _Him_ , he doesn`t know what he will do. He tries to get a hold of his breathing, tries to slow the too-rapid fluttering of his heart.

He`s being ridiculous. He`s being ridiculous. All he has to do is look, and one way or other it will be over. But he can`t. He`s weak, and he can`t.

"Jask?" Geralt`s voice, morning-rough and sleep-relaxed. Jaskier can feel the moment he realizes what`s happening, snapping to full alertness, and he wants so much to apologize for not even allowing the Witcher a _moment_ of fucking rest, but he can`t speak.

"I`m going to move back. Is that all right?" At Jaskier`s shaky nod he slowly eases away, movements careful. A wide hand, hovering at the peripheral of Jaskier`s vision, and then, "Can I touch you?"

"Mmhm." Fuck, _fuck_ , he`s pathetic. Too afraid to look the man he loves in the eye, too much of a coward to face the possibility that he might be wrong, that none of this is real.

Slowly, Jaskier allows his face to be tilted up by gentle fingers at his chin, but he squeezes his eyes shut at the last moment. He just needs a moment to breathe, just one fucking moment to exist without consequence. But as much as he`d like to, he can`t hide forever.

He forces his eyes open, releases a rush of breath when he meets a pained yellow gaze. It`s Geralt. It`s only Geralt.

" _Fuck_ " Jaskier makes a sound that might`ve been a laugh if there was any humor behind it. He reaches out and cups Geralt`s stupid, lovely face, runs his thumb down to rest at the cleft of his chin. He gives his best impression of an apologetic smile, but he knows it`s too watery to pass. "Sorry."

Geralt frowns at that, expression stony. "Don`t. Don`t apologize for not being sure."

They`ve been through this time and time again by now. If the Witcher is exhausted with having to constantly reassure him, he`s never shown it. It`s only ever been this: gentleness and patience and quiet understanding, more kindness than Jaskier could possibly deserve.

"I know," Jaskier whispers, but it feels like a lie.

He bridges the gap between them with halting movements, kisses Geralt softly at first, and then with a bit more fervour at Geralt`s soft noise of want. Something pulls painfully in his chest as he crowds into Geralt`s space, feels the rough scrape of stubble against his cheek. All he has to do is stay in constant physical contact with the Witcher and never fall asleep again in his life, and he`ll be fine. Easy.

Geralt breaks away with obvious reluctance, touches his forehead to Jaskier`s. "You alright?"

"Yep." He shuts his eyes, exhausted. "Fantastic, actually. I love this. How I`d never considered the benefits of psychological trauma before this, I`ll never understand. I`d really been _missing out_ , Geralt, you know? Just living my dullest life, free of paranoia."

"Hmm." Jaskier knows Geralt doesn`t find it particularly funny when he jokes about these things, so he appreciates the lack of admonition. "Ciri and I are hunting today. You`ll be alright with Yen?"

"I`ll be fine, Geralt, really." Just for emphasis, he leans in and kisses the tip of the Witcher`s rounded nose, feeling really and truly better when it causes Geralt`s entire face to scrunch up in confusion. "I`m fine. Go. I'll have the whole of the magical arts mastered by the time you get back."

~

"Uh-huh, uh-huh." Jaskier nods thoughtfully, studying the various array of herbs and stones spread out before him. "Right. I`ve nearly got it. If you`d be so kind as to go over it one more time, I will be absolutely golden."

"Which bit?" How Yennefer still manages to look regal whilst kneeling in the dirt, he`ll never understand, but she absolutely does. She fiddles with something plant-y that he`d undoubtedly known the name of several minutes earlier and places it into a small pouch.

"Just… Just all of it. Just literally everything you`ve said thus far, but again and in a manner that I might better understand and also retain? If possible." Jaskier makes a circular motion with his hand, attempting to encompass the whole of everything Yennefer has ever said, ever, with the movement. "Just everything."

The Witch only stares at him, unimpressed. "Ciri picked this up in a fraction of the time, you realize. With far less interruption."

"I don`t really see how that`s relevant." If he mumbles it a bit petulantly, it`s nobody`s business but his own. They`ve been at this for _hours_ now, and Jaskier is no closer to understanding Yen`s lessons than he had been at the start. Having always excelled at school in the past, he finds it more than little aggravating to be following along so poorly now.

Yennefer sighs as though deeply put-upon. "I cannot believe I`m about to say this, Bard, but you`re thinking too much. This won`t work if you`re in your head; you have to _feel_ it"

"And I deeply appreciate the poetry of that, I do - as a matter of fact, it actually gives me an idea for a song - but what in the fuck does that _mean_ , Yennefer? What am I meant to be feeling? Plants? They feel like plants, Yen. Plants feel like plants."

Her eyes narrow dangerously, then flick to the space behind his head as the sound of crunching leaves draws near. Jaskier tenses for just a moment before Geralt and Ciri come into view, wielding the spoils of their hunt.

"Witcher," Yennefer addresses the man in question coolly, just the lightest air of accusation in her tone. "You`ve decided to love this man, have you not?"

Geralt looks from Yennefer to Jaskier as though he`s unsure what the correct answer might be in this situation, pauses just long enough for Jaskier to feel justifiably scandalized. "I have."

"Good. You take over. I think we`re feeling just a tad combative at the moment, and it`s not exactly been conducive to learning." She rises gracefully, takes the dead rabbits straight from Geralt`s grasp and pushes him down with a light hand on his shoulder. "Magical properties. Go."

"The fuck?" Geralt is left blinking after her, brow furrowed as Ciri outright laughs. He turns his baffled gaze to Jaskier, but the Bard can only shrug. "What did you do?"

Jaskier throws his arms out defensively. "Nothing! I have been a model student, Geralt, _she_ is being dramatic." He dodges sod as it`s lobbed at him. "See! You see the conditions I`m meant to work with?"

Geralt does something complicated with his mouth like he`s trying not to smile, but he wisely refrains from weighing in on the argument. He nods to the array of items set out before them. "Where`d you leave off."

When Jaskier indicates a particular pouch, he picks it up to inspect the contents, sniffing lightly. With a shrug he tosses it over. "What`s that smell like."

"Whyyy?" Jaskier catches the pouch with poorly disguised suspicion, but he brings it to nose all the same. "Tea. It just smells of tea, Geralt."

"And? What does it feel like to you? Strength? Power?" The Witcher arches an eyebrow, and Jaskier frowns but acquiesces, sniffs delicately once more.

And then, easy as that, he gets it. "Oh, fuck!" He grins at Geralt, pleasantly shocked. "That`s meant to be protection, isn`t it? The ingredients for a protection spell." He can feel it in the pleasant smell of bergamot and citrus, something earthier and steady beneath. Something about the scent feels safe, feels comforting as it settles in his chest.

"You`ve got to be _fucking_ kidding me." Yennefer looks between the two of them in disbelief. She gestures accusingly at Geralt with the rabbit she`s just begun to skin. "One moment with you, and all of a sudden he understands. _'What does that smell like?'_ , and he understands."

The Witch shakes her head in disgust, rolls her gaze upward as though searching for an answer from a higher power. When she doesn`t find one, she glares back at them. " _You two_ need to spend far less time together."

"Perhaps," Geralt smirks, "Or perhaps I`m just a better teacher."

Jaskier gasps theatrically at that, whips his gaze toward Geralt as he`s struck by a thought. "Oh my gods, I`m in a relationship with my professor. It really _is_ University all over again."

He grins as Geralt levels him with a particularly disapproving side-eye. "Tell me, Professor Witcher, what is your grading scale like? Where do you land on the idea of extra credit, because I have just got the _best_ ideas for after school activ-"

Geralt claps a hand over his mouth, expression warning as he jerks his chin to where Ciri watches them, amused. Jaskier, being the extremely mature and professional being that he is, absolutely does not lick Geralt`s palm, except for the part where he does.

"Ugh." The Witcher grimaces and splays the entirety of his hand over Jaskier`s face, pushing it gently backward. He wipes his palm on his shirt. "Just for that, you`re cooking."

Jaskier grins. It`s a small price to pay.

~

They run into some trouble just outside of Sodden, because of course they do. It`s only a small group of soldiers and spies, definitely Nilfgaardian and well-armed, but nothing Yen and Geralt can`t handle on their own. Jaskier rides ahead with Ciri clinging tightly to his waist, determined to get the girl safe and out of earshot from the skirmish.

They dismount Roach in a particularly dense section of woods, Jaskier wielding the bow he`s slowly beginning to master with grim determination. Beside him Ciri grasps a blade, shaking, and he fucking hates the sight of it held in her small hands.

"We`ll be fine." He does his best to look reassuring, offering the girl a small smile. "I haven`t seen Yennefer that angry in ages; she`ll make short work of them."

"I know," Ciri whispers. She steps just a bit closer into his side, and Jaskier releases his hold on the bow in favor of wrapping an arm around her slim shoulders. He hates the determined look in her eye, the resignation to violence and unease no child her age should ever be accustomed to. Jaskier is struck as always by her poise, somehow untarnished despite the weight she`s been forced to carry.

The _moment_ they get to Kaer Morhen, he decides, he`s going to teach her to dance. Show her something _joyful_ , something _good_. Gods know she deserves it.

"It`s alright. We`ll be alright." He kisses the top of her ashen head, rubs her arm in an attempt to be comforting as she slumps against him. His stomach absolutely _drops_ when Ciri yelps, surprised, and Jaskier snatches his hand back to find that it`s bloody.

"Fuck, Ciri." He drops to his knees before her, tries to disguise his panic as he searches for the source of the blood. The sleeve of her dress is torn and stained red, and he turns her arm gently to find a clean cut just above the fold of her elbow, several inches wide. It`s deep enough to require stitches at the very least, and Jaskier worries for the damage he _can`t_ see.

He does his best to appear calm as he grabs Ciri`s opposite hand, gently brings it to wrap around the injury. "Keep pressure on that for me, love. Just for a moment while I grab the supplies." At Ciri`s wide-eyed nod, he scrambles to unload Geralt`s pack from Roach, cursing the low light as he searches for what he needs.

"Is it bad?" Ciri`s quiet voice, her poorly disguised fear nearly slay him. The pain has clearly begun to hit her as her adrenaline wears off, and Jaskier wants to scream. He wants to ride back into the fray, wants to find the man responsible and fucking destroy him. He just prays Geralt and Yen have already done him the honor.

"No, sweet thing, it`s not bad at all." Jaskier gives her his best smile, heart aching when she tremulously returns it. "Naught but a scratch. I am, however, going to need to tear your lovely dress, and for that I am truly sorry."

Ciri actually snorts, and Jaskier feels a rush of affection. "It`s an ugly dress, Jaskier. You needn`t feel bad."

"All the same." He tears the material gently, lets his hand hover above the wound for just a moment.

He can feel Ciri`s familiar lively tone curling around him, soured now by notes of pain and distress. It`s an awful feeling, an awful sound, and without even truly thinking, Jaskier reaches out with something within him and _tunes_ it, soothes the notes until they harmonize once more.

"Shhhit." Jaskier watches in shocked detachment as Ciri`s wound begins to seal itself at the exact time sharp pain begins to sear across his own arm. He hisses quietly at the sudden deep ache above his elbow, the feeling of warm blood soaking through his shirt.

For just a moment, an awful fraction of a second, he`s reminded of Rowan. How he`d unwittingly healed himself by transferring his injuries to the Mage, how he`d healed Geralt only after all but erasing Rowan from existence. He wonders if this is the way his power has chosen to manifest itself. Healing, but only at the price of hurt. Life but for the price of death. Just one last gift from the Mage, one last curse.

Jaskier doesn`t realize his breathing has picked up until he feels Ciri`s hands on his face, and he finds himself blinking rapidly into wide blue eyes in an effort to stave off a sudden wave of dizziness. He sits down hard, feels distantly ashamed at the worry written all over Ciri`s face.

"Hey, hey, it`s fine." He shakes his head to dispel some of the fog, pulls Ciri down to cradle against his chest when he finds himself unable to stand. At least the girl finally feels healed and whole, and it`s the most that he can ask for. "Are you alright?"

"You _healed_ me." Ciri wraps her arms around his neck, and Jaskier gets the feeling she`s trying to protect _him_ every bit as much as he`s trying to protect her.

He leans his head on her small shoulder, hopes with everything in him that the others arrive soon. Whether it had been the act of healing itself, the sudden blood loss or a combination thereof, it`s with dread that he can feel himself starting to fade.

He lets himself nod off for just a moment, jerks back awake at Ciri`s sound of distress. Skinny arms holding him up, supporting him when all Jaskier`s body wants to do is give in. He tries to snap himself out of it, to take some of his weight off her, but the lion cub of Cintra is stronger than she looks. She readjusts her grip, voice high and fearful as she calls out quietly for Geralt.

Jaskier wants so much to comfort her, to be stronger than his body for _fucking once_ , but he can`t. He slams his eyes shut, suddenly overwhelmed by the familiar vibrating melodies that have become background noise to him as they rise and crescendo.

Ciri`s presence, strong and bright and vibrant, calls to him, and Jaskier instinctually backs off, terrified of the way his power yearns to latch on to her strength. His body wants to heal itself, wants to reach out to the closest source of energy and _take it_ , and Jaskier shoves himself away and _out_ before he can cause the girl harm. He`s so afraid of hurting her, so scared of what his power might do without his permission, that he pushes himself too far.

He can feel the life blood of the woods as it hums around them, the deep bass vibrations of gnarled roots and sloping hills. The lighter, twinkling notes of a river nearby. He can feel the scurrying and scattered tremors of prey, the sure and determined tones of predators as they descend. Further still, Jaskier can feel Geralt and Yen, a turmoil of clashing chords as they hurry closer. The awful, humming void of lives lost that they`ve left behind them.

It`s too much for Jaskier and not enough for the tendrils of power he can feel stretching outward, searching and hungry. He`s desperate to rein himself back in but he doesn`t fucking know _how_ , and he sends his panic out like a flare, praying that someone will see.

And then, thankfully, an answer. A calming presence curling around him, gentle and soothing, calling him back. A signal fire lighting his way back home, and Jaskier gratefully follows.

He`s surging up and shoving himself back before he truly knows what`s happening, heaving great lungful’s of air, eyes wild and unfocused. Two pairs of hands bracing against him, halting his movements, and Jaskier`s first instinct is to panic and fight before he finally calms enough to realize it`s only Geralt and Yen.

"Jaskier, gods _fucking_ damn it." Geralt, furious and distraught, gathers him close. One iron-gripped hand clamped tight around the wound on his arm, the Witcher curses quietly into his hair. Jaskier can feel his heart pounding, the uncomfortable, twisting notes of worry and stress.

" _Fuck_ , I'm- " An awful thought occurs to him, and Jaskier pushes himself back despite Geralt`s gentle resistance. He searches wide golden eyes for any sign of pain. "Are you hurt? Did I hurt you? Ciri…"

"She`s fine." Yennefer`s voice, soothing, and Jaskier whips his head around to find the Witch retreated and inspecting Ciri carefully. She offers him a tight smile, and he winces at the scrapes on her cheek and the blood at the corner of her mouth. "Everyone`s alright."

Geralt makes a sound halfway between a hum and a growl, hand twitching just a bit too tightly around Jaskier`s arm, and Jaskier flinches but allows the pain. He`s scared him, and badly if the shadowed look on Geralt`s face is any indication.

Irritated with himself, Jaskier yanks his arm out of Geralt`s grasp, surprising them both. He pushes himself away, ignores the welling of new blood as he wraps his arms around his middle in some imitation of comfort. Bites out " _I`m fine_ ", and turns away from the hurt and worry he can see in Geralt`s eyes.

"Ciri, hand me the bandages?" He motions for the girl to pass them over, feels helplessness and disproportionate anger when Ciri makes no move. Jaskier is a grown _fucking_ man, and even injured and dazed, he`s more than capable of taking care of himself.

"Fine. That`s fine." He tries to heave himself up, knocking Geralt`s careful hands away when they move to aid him. Dizziness has him breathing hard and Jaskier braces himself, fingers digging into grass and soil as a wave rushes through him. He shakes his head, furious and ashamed with his body`s lack of cooperation. Humiliated by the three sets of eyes he can feel burning into him.

"Just. Just hand me the pack, and go away. Please. Just for a bit, let me do this." He`s already put them through enough. If he can`t do this, what the fuck _can_ he do?

"We`re not going to do that." Geralt`s voice, low and so, so cautious, and Jaskier wants to _scream_. "Jaskier, just let me help. You look as though you`re about to collapse."

"Then fucking _let me_ , Geralt." He`s got no real explanation for the rage he feels, the shame and degradation. All he wants is to be left to lick his wounds in peace for fucking _once_ , to do something for himself without being hovered over like a helpless child.

"Jaskier…" Geralt rests a gentle hand on his back, supportive, and Jaskier wrenches away from the touch with more strength than he feels.

"Don`t. Geralt, just don`t." Then, when Yen begins to rise, "You fucking either, Yennefer, I mean it. You`re both hurt, I can feel it. Just see to yourselves and leave me be."

Jaskier slumps, wraps a trembling hand around his aching arm and knows he must look pitiful. Doesn`t miss the condescending looks being traded above his head. Geralt reaches for him once more, slowly, muttering quiet words of comfort, and that`s about when it all goes to shit.

Jaskier _shoves_ him away with bloodied hands, watches as Geralt`s eyes flash first with confusion and then grim determination. He makes a move as though to reach for him again, and Jaskier doesn`t know whether it`s the expression on Geralt`s face or the action itself that causes it, but he fucking _panics_.

All he knows is that he desperately wants to be left alone, that he doesn`t want to be handled or touched or treated against his will, doesn`t want to be forced. There are strong hands trying to hold him still that he just wants _off_ of him, and he snarls and spits and shoves with every last ounce strength he`s got. He can hear himself shouting, can feel the way his nails dig into skin even as his arms are pulled gently but firmly away. Jaskier feels half-wild in his desperation, terrified out of his mind as he tries to escape the touch, but it doesn`t let up. He thinks he might be crying, that maybe he might be begging, but it doesn`t stop.

The very last thing he sees before it all goes quiet is Geralt making the sign for Axii.


	2. Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t.w.- brief recollections and descriptions of non-con.

“I wish you would look at me.” 

It’s been over a day now, and Geralt is ready to break. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say to ease this awful strained quiet between him and Jaskier. The Bard has spent the better half of the morning barely acknowledging his presence, only responding in clipped, efficient answers when directly addressed. Geralt fucking _hates_ it, hates the anger and hurt he can feel emanating from the Bard in waves. Hates that, for the first time since they’ve known each other, the full force of Jaskier’s formidable ire is aimed solely at him. 

He watches as Jaskier’s posture goes rigid, tight like he’s attempting to contain himself, and Geralt nearly _prays_ for the outburst. He’ll take harsh and wounded words from Jaskier anyday, anything over this terrible quiet. This sudden chasm between them.

Jaskier breathes something that could almost be called a laugh if it weren’t so achingly wry, shakes his head as though in disbelief. Still, he won’t look at Geralt. “Not now.”

And, _fuck_ , what does that even _mean_? Geralt clenches his jaw, pointlessly readjusts Roach’s reins in order to give himself something to do for just a moment. Something that even he can’t fuck up. 

He’s never been the best with communicating his feelings, his concerns, least of all when it’s absolutely paramount that he does so. With Jaskier in particular, he knows he’s become too reliant on the Bard’s innate ability to understand what’s going on in Geralt’s head, too comfortable in allowing him to be the one to bridge the gap between them. He can’t think of a single thing to say now that won’t make things worse than they already are. But gods know he owes it to Jaskier to try.

“Tell me then.” Slowly, gently, he brings Roach to a halt. Ciri and Yennefer have already ridden ahead in order to scout out a campsite; they can afford to stop, if only for a bit. “Help me understand, and I’ll make it up to you.”

“Fuck, Geralt…” Jaskier winces, pained, and even though he near towers above the Witcher from his seat upon the mare, something about the way he folds in on himself makes him appear small. Swallowed up as he is in Geralt’s borrowed cloak, it’s a pitiful picture. “Must we do this? I’m begging you to leave it be, just this once. Please.”

“You’re angry with me.” Geralt can’t fix it, can’t fix _this_ , if he doesn’t know why.

Jaskier finally looks at him then, bright eyes dark with sorrow, something deeper that Geralt isn’t sure he wants to identify. He looks fucking _tired_ , fragile and pale from bloodloss and the toll his powers have taken, and all Geralt wants to do is _protect him_. He just wants him safe. He’s only ever wanted him safe.

Jaskier bites his lip, shakes his head as though he’s unsure why he’s bothering with this conversation at all. “I’m fucking furious with you, Geralt, but that’s neither here nor there.” He attempts to spur Roach forward, turning incredulous eyes to Geralt when the Witcher halts her once more. “ _Fuck_ , Geralt, I know it’s difficult for you to believe that I might not want to talk about something, but I can assure you that I don’t. Can we move on?”

“I’d prefer we spoke about this.” Before it gets out of hand. Before it gets any worse.

“Geralt, _Why_ are you pushing this?” There’s a sharp edge of desperation to Jaskier’s words that belies his harsh tone. “For fuck’s sake, just allow me the dignity of pretending all is well until it actually _is_.”

Geralt frowns at that, unease and reluctant irritation curling in his gut. He completely understands Jaskier’s need to be more reserved with his emotions considering all that he’s been through, but it still doesn’t sit well. Having spent over twenty years being informed of nearly every thought that happened to cross Jaskier’s mind, Geralt doesn’t know what to do with this new caution.

Something must show on his face, in his posture, because Jaskier heaves a great sigh. “Help me down.” Then, when Geralt only looks at him questioningly, “I’d like not to have this conversation with the top of your head, Geralt, help me down. Please.”

He slides down from Roach in halting movements, muscles tensing when Geralt wraps his hands around his waist in order to ease him to the ground, and the Witcher frowns, concern curling in his gut. “Are you hurt?” Had they missed something when treating him? 

Geralt places a careful hand on Jaskier’s side, fully intending to reassure himself of the Bard’s health, but he’s left stunned and stung when Jaskier flinches out of his reach, expression thunderous and pained. “Fuck, _Geralt_ , you might fucking ask before you simply paw at me at your leisure.”

“Where is this coming from?” Geralt retracts his hands, bewildered. “Jaskier, you asked me to help you-”

“I asked you to help me _down_. Down, Geralt, and nothing more. I did not ask you to touch me, or inspect me for injuries, yet you just fucking _do_ it. Does it even matter to you, what I want? Or will you do as you wish regardless?”

“Of fucking _course_ it matters to me, Jaskier. How could it not?” Geralt feels the pain of his accusations like a physical blow, and fuck, he’d prefer if it were one. He’s left feeling useless and unsure when Jaskier’s face suddenly crumples in anguish, eyes bright with unshed tears. He’s _fully_ unprepared when Jaskier suddenly steps forward and _shoves_ him.

“Geralt, you used your _fucking_ powers on me!” Jaskier clenches his jaw, his fists, but it does little to negate the helplessness and misery he so clearly feels. He makes as though to shove Geralt again, but he stops himself, fisting his hands in the material of Geralt’s shirt instead. He gives the Witcher a gentle shake, and his eyes are desperate and pleading and _furious_ “You used Axii on me, Geralt. How could you do that, after-”

Jaskier cuts himself off, looks away blinking as grief pulls his lips into a terrible grimace. It’s a moment before he can face Geralt again, and when he does the Witcher can barely stand to meet his gaze. “Do you know what that felt like? After everything? I was fucking _scared_ , Geralt, and then I woke up, and I didn’t know where I was, and you just- you just-”

He shakes his closed fists again, broadcasts his pain so loudly that it’s all the Witcher can hear. “You can’t _do_ that, Geralt, I’m not- I’m not one of your monsters, you’re not supposed to do that to me! You weren't supposed to do that to me.” 

He doesn’t protest when Geralt pulls him in, horrified and at a loss for words. Jaskier allows him to wrap careful arms around his skinny frame as he nearly folds into the Witcher’s embrace, breath hitching. He can feel the tremors racing through him, the rapid-fire heaving of his chest as he fights to stave off tears. Hears the awful, broken sounds Jaskier makes when he’s unable.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt presses a kiss to that dark hair, rests his cheek upon Jaskier’s head and prays that he feels the sincerity of his words. He finds he can hardly breathe for the aching in his chest, the terrible guilt clawing at his throat. “Jaskier, I’m so fucking sorry.”

He will never forgive himself for this. As long as he lives, he will never forget this moment as it feels now: Jaskier held delicate and broken against him, traumatized yet again at Geralt’s own hands. His own unthinking impulse. He’d been so afraid that Jaskier might hurt himself that he hadn’t even considered the hurt his own actions might cause - the healing he might have so thoughtlessly undone.

“I didn’t think. I wasn’t thinking.” Geralt doesn’t try to explain himself; it’s not what Jaskier deserves to hear. “Forgive me, I wasn’t thinking.”

Jaskier only buries his face deeper into Geralt’s chest, and the Witcher can feel the dampness of tears beginning to stain his shirt. When he finally speaks, his voice is a wretched thing, rasping and small. “I thought it was him. Geralt, I thought I was back there again.”

Geralt’s stomach pitches impossibly lower, and he curses himself. Of course Jaskier had thought that, why _wouldn’t_ he, given the situation? There have been times when Jaskier is perfectly _lucid_ and Geralt can see him begin to doubt himself, see him questioning the reality of a moment when it seems to be pulling him into the past. Of course upon waking disoriented and in pain, he would immediately imagine the worst. And then to see Geralt, still battered and bruised from their recent battle, sat before him? Why wouldn’t he believe himself thrown back in Rowan’s cruel clutch, made to relive that last horrible day once more?

Geralt pulls back with halting movements, tilts Jaskier’s face upward with gentle hands. He thumbs the wetness from his cheeks, cursing himself yet again as the Bard watches him through dark lashes clumped together with tears. Hates himself for the hurt that he’s caused, when all he’s ever wanted is to protect. 

He’s supposed to be better than this. For Jaskier, he’s supposed to be better.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt kisses one eye, and then the other, Jaskier’s face held gentle in his hands. He presses a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead, murmurs quiet apologies into his hair. He can’t undo the damage he’s done, but he can be gentle, now. “Please forgive me.”

Jaskier doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t push him away, either. Geralt can’t ask for any more than that.

~

Later that evening when they’re making camp, Geralt hesitates in combining their bedrolls. He tilts his head at Jaskier, unsure of what the Bard might want but unable to voice his question for fear of the answer.

When Jaskier’s mouth goes thin with indecision, Geralt tenses but nods. He wordlessly makes to hand one of the bedrolls over, and is baffled when Jaskier stays his hand. 

“No, Geralt, that’s not-.” Jaskier swallows, flicks his gaze over Geralt’s face. He seems to blanch at whatever it is he finds, and suddenly it’s as though he’s retreating into himself. It's awful, how small he can make himself these days. He’d always been the largest presence in the room, to Geralt. “Oh. No, that’s- that’s perfectly. That’s a perfectly valid, um, reaction.” 

Jaskier takes the bedroll with a self-deprecating laugh, hugging it to his chest. He smiles, and it’s so far from the real thing that Geralt knows then and there that the lengths he’d go to see Jaskier happy are terrifyingly infinite. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t want to sleep near me either. What with all the - the shouting. And the-” He gestures toward his head with a lazy circle of his hand, and Geralt’s heart drops at the implication of _crazy_.

“Jaskier-”

“It’s fine. We’re fine.” He shuffles backward with intent, nearly slipping in his haste to flee. “Probably for the best. We’ll just - opposite sides, yeah? Keep the girls safe. What with our respectively threatening presences. Muscles, and the like.” His brows draw together in pained determination and he nods, more to himself than to the Witcher. “Night, Geralt.” 

He retreats before Geralt can even so much as open his mouth in protest, taken aback as he is. How the _fuck_ could Jaskier possibly think that Geralt wouldn’t want him, that he wouldn’t even want to be near him? How the fuck had they landed here?

Geralt gets over himself with a shake of his head, stalks after his Bard before the beautiful idiot can so much as decide on a spot to sleep. He takes the bedroll from Jaskier’s hands, proceeding to set up their usual arrangement while Jaskier blinks at him in shock. Geralt’s not having it. He won’t have it. They’ve both been through too much to be driven apart now.

“Come on.” He nods for Jaskier to get settled, slipping quietly beside him when the Bard hesitantly does as he asks. Geralt doesn’t know how to word what he’s feeling when he’s met with wide, questioning blue eyes, so he does the next best thing. He bridges the gap between them, kisses the tip of Jaskier’s nose as he’s been known to do with Geralt’s. He’d never particularly understood the drive, but it always seemed to make Jaskier happy. He just wants to see him happy.

He’s rewarded with a watery smile, Jaskier’s slender hand snaking out from under the blanket to rest upon his cheek. Geralt turns into the touch, pressing a kiss to his palm, and Jaskier laughs wetly. He rests his forehead softly against the Witcher’s, slips his hand into Geralt’s hair and tugs gently at the locks. He seems to be gathering himself, gathering courage, and so Geralt waits.

Jaskier takes a breath, shaky and uneven. “Please don't think I don’t understand why you did it; I do.” He runs his hand through Geralt’s hair, soothing, and though he knows he doesn’t deserve it, Geralt chases the comfort. “I know you were only afraid for me. That you were trying to help. But I can’t feel that way again, Geralt. I won’t.”

And Geralt doesn’t want to ask, but he has to know. “Rowan. Did he ever…?” He winces when Jaskier laughs, and it’s a bitter thing.

“Yes. No. It wasn’t like Axii. It wasn’t…meant to be nice.” Geralt watches as Jaskier’s expression shutters, and he doesn’t know if he wants to follow where he’s gone or pull him safely back home. “He would- when I made him angry. He liked it when I couldn’t move, but he still preferred me to be… exceedingly fucking present. Master of humiliation, that man, I’ll give him that. Top marks for creativity.”

Geralt shuts his eyes, clenches his jaw at the thought of Jaskier being made so helpless, unable to fend for himself in even the most basic of ways. He wishes, not for the first time, that he’d been able to destroy the Mage himself. Wishes that they’d never had the terrible luck of coming to know him in the first place. “I’m sorry.”

“Geralt, listen.” Jaskier gently butts his head against the Witcher’s until he can bring himself to meet somber blue eyes, “I need you to listen. I know you would never intentionally hurt me, I know that. And it means so fucking much to me that you’d go to such lengths not to see me hurt. But I can’t promise you that there won’t be more days like yesterday, and I need- I need you to swear to me you won’t do it again. Even if I ever truly lose the plot, even if it seems as though I might hurt someone. I swear to Melitele herself, Geralt, I would rather you put me the _fuck_ down than feel that way again. I need my body to be my own. I won’t have it taken away from me, not again. Not for anything.”

“It won’t come to that.” Geralt feels himself go cold at the conviction in Jaskier’s eyes, the surety behind his declaration. He won’t let it happen. Jaskier will not lose himself, and Geralt will not lose him either. “It won’t ever come to that. I’ll promise you that. Only that.”

And from the frown on Jaskier’s face, it’s the answer he expected, if not the one he wanted. He looks so fucking weary when he finally acquieces with a nod, and Geralt feels only the slightest relief when he shuffles forward and near burrows into him. He kicks gently at Geralt’s shin until the Witcher wraps his arms around him tight.  
“I still love you. Even if you can’t fucking listen.”

“It’s my charm. I’m told that it’s effortless.” It’s the stupidest, least appropriate thing that could have tumbled out of Geralt’s mouth.

But Jaskier laughs.

~

One day eases into the next, each a bit calmer, a bit more palatable than the last. Something seems to settle between Jaskier and himself, and Geralt’s so grateful for the lack of tension that he forgoes Ciri’s intermittent lessons in favor of watching his small company as they practice the most basic of nature spells. Well, watching Ciri and Jaskier practice the most basic of spells. Yennefer, of course, has woven something delicate and complicated and _mobile_ out of nearby vines, laughing when Jaskier dismisses her as a showoff.

“Jealousy is not a good look on you, Bard.”

“Pffft. Everything is a good look on me; I’m _good looking_.” He gestures to Geralt without so much as looking up from his handful of dried flowers. “He gets it.”

From where she’s seated next to him, Ciri can’t seem to settle on amused or disgusted, so Geralt just follows the warmth in his chest, shrugs and admits, “Obnoxious. But not wrong.”

“Ugh, we all know you’re helplessly besotted, but please don’t encourage him, Geralt. He’ll not stop going on about it if you do.” The girl does her best to disguise a smile, but the moment she looks to the Witcher, her expression lights up, devious. Geralt feels immediate dread settle into his bones. “You’re blushing! I didn’t know you could blush!”

Geralt steadfastly refuses to meet Jaskier’s gaze when his head snaps up, delighted. Because _some-fucking-how_ this particular issue hadn’t been covered during Witcher trials, his face only grows hotter under the scrutiny. 

Geralt shakes his head in dismissal, playing it off. “It’s the cold. Pay attention to your lessons, you’re falling behind.”

“Ger _alt_!” Jaskier’s smile is impossibly wide, eyes bright with mirth, and it’s the happiest Geralt’s seen him in _weeks_. The smile only grows when Geralt tries and fails to level him with a disapproving frown. 

“Alright, that’s it. I’ve no other choice. Princess, avert your gaze lest you bear witness to the devilishly romantic act of your Witcher succumbing to death by snog.” Jaskier springs up with a purpose, mischeif in the line of his mouth as he begins to strut toward said Witcher.

Geralt arches his brow, amused as he suddenly finds himself with a lapful of grinning Bard looping arms around his neck, and from the light tickle he feels at his nape he can tell Jaskier hasn’t even bothered to drop his handfuls of dead flowers. Geralt supposes he can’t terribly regret the unintended show of emotion if this is the result it earns him. 

From the look on Jaskier’s face he half expects to be devoured, so he’s both vaguely disappointed and pleasantly surprised when he’s met with the most gentle of kisses, slow and sweet and soft. Yen and Ciri protest rather vocally behind them, but Geralt ignores them in favor of resting his hands upon slim hips, nipping lightly along Jaskier’s jaw.

“I am, by profession, obligated to immortalize this moment in song, you realize. _’Tale of the Blushing Witcher’_ , perhaps? _’Woes of the Handsome Bard’_? That’s got a bit of a ring to it, hasn’t it?” Jaskier pulls back to smile at him, and his eyes are soft and calculating. Geralt decides to shut him up before he can continue with increasingly embarrassing suggestions. He pulls him down for another kiss and smiles when Jaskier laughs into it, surprised. Something bright and fierce clutches at his chest at the sound, so Geralt lightly runs his hands up sensitive sides just to hear it again.

“That’s quite enough of that, thank you,” comes Yennefer’s flat decree. “Geralt, cease distracting my student and go make yourself useful elsewhere.”

“Oh, dear,” Jaskier leans in conspiratorially, his breath ghosting Geralt’s ear. “It appears as though we’ve angered the Witch. Best get back to it before we find ourselves hexed.”

“Wouldn’t want that.” Geralt helps him up with a disgruntled huff, and the glare he sends Yennefer’s way falls flat when the Witch only rolls her eyes, unimpressed. He’s got every intention of muttering something biting, but he feels himself tense when Yennefer’s gaze suddenly snaps to Jaskier with something akin to shock.

“Well _that’s_ certainly… a thing that’s just happened.” Jaskier turns wide eyes to Geralt, that little uneven smile pulling at his lips. For a moment Geralt doesn’t understand, but then Jaskier raises his hands with a flourish and he _does_.

The flowers grasped in his fists, dried and crumbling only moments ago, are now very much _alive_ , petals flourishing and _roots sprouting_ before their eyes. Jaskier barks out a shocked laugh, tilts his head in order to inspect the plants as they continue to grow. He furrows his brows, a bemused smile gracing his lips before his eyes flick to the ground and he jumps back with an alarmed “Oh, fuck, shit, bollocks, _Yen_! Yen I can’t stop it!”

It’s only then that Geralt sees it: the grass at Jaskier’s feet, rapidly browning and dying away as the flowers in his hands thrive. Jaskier dances away from the spot, leaves a few more dead patches in his wake before Yennefer is at his side, closing her hands around his fists, and the magic ceases.

“Well, then,” she carefully removes the flowers from Jaskier’s hands, the blooms impossibly bright. She rotates the newly sprouted bouquet, studying. “I think we can conclusively say how your power has decided to manifest, Bard.”

“By fucking _murdering_ , Yen?” He taps experimentally at the dead grass with the toe of his boot, releasing a strangled shout when the smallest bit of green reappears and the flowers wilt accordingly.

“It does make sense,” Yennefer muses, “considering how you came into your powers in the first place.” Then, at Jaskier’s poorly disguised sound of pain and Geralt’s warning glare, she pointedly elaborates. “You aren’t murdering anything, Jaskier, you’re just… shifting energy. You don’t draw your power from Chaos as the rest of us do. Your magic is stationary because of the very nature of how it came to be. It lives within you and you alone - that’s why that pathetic, _useless_ fucking sack of dog shit Mage couldn’t take it from you. It stands to reason that you’d be limited to manipulating pre-existing energy. Honestly it’s magic as it’s truly meant to be: maintaining the balance and incurring no debt.”

Geralt keeps his eyes trained on Jaskier for any signs of distress, but the Bard only sighs with something like acceptance. “I’d sort of got that impression, what with the.. literally every single that’s happened thus far. Nothing overly elaborate to be seen in my future, then? No,” he wiggles his fingers, “portals to other worlds or what have you?”

“I’d say that’s highly unlikely, given the circumstances.”

“Oh, thank fuck.” Jaskier doubles over in relief, hands braced on his knees, and for just a moment Geralt is thrown back to that terrible night - Jaskier hunched in on himself before unfolding, terrified and confused, to find himself wielding a knife. He tries to keep his face neutral as Jaskier sits heavily beside him, wheezing a quiet laugh as he slumps against Geralt’s side. Not for the first time he feels a surge of guilt at the easy show of trust, when Geralt’s own lack of trust had very nearly gotten Jaskier killed.

Oblivious to the Witcher’s inner turmoil, Jaskier rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder. “Right then. That’s one less thing to worry about. Now all I’ve got to get a handle on is the… not sucking the life out of things bit. Good job I’ve shown just the most _amazing_ control thus far.”

Geralt takes his hand, laces their fingers tight as he attempts to shake off his guilt. This isn’t about him. “You’ll figure it out.”

“Eh. Tell that to the fucking-” Jaskier waves a hand toward the dead patches of earth. “Innocent blades of grass over yonder. Or my _arm_ , for that matter.”

Yennefer sighs. “At the very least it’s a place to start, Bard. It certainly explains why you’ve been so shit at picking it up.”

Jaskier makes a particularly rude gesture, much to Ciri’s amusement, but Geralt can feel the way he slowly tenses. He cuts his gaze to Geralt, questioning, concern written in his features. It’s then that the Witcher recalls the _other_ aspect of his powers, Jaskier’s so-called “music”, and he wonders how off his must sound to garner such a look. “Geralt?”

“Was just thinking about something. It’s fine.” Rehashing Geralt’s guilt for the sake of his own absolution is the last thing any of them needs right now. He’ll make it up to Jaskier in action, if not in words. “Go on, then, back to your lessons. I’ve got dinner to catch.”

He’s prepared for an argument when Jaskier only frowns, but he’s saved by Ciri springing to her feet. She pulls her hair back from her face, braiding it quickly before securing it with a tie. “I’m coming with you! I want to see if any of the traps worked.”

And, well, that’s that. He’s certainly not one to argue with a princess.

~

“Geralt?”

The Witcher hums in response, kneeling to inspect yet another failed trap. Some sort of predator has clearly learned to benefit from their work, as the last three traps they’ve visited have all been triggered and subsequently cleared out. From the tracks he finds Geralt can guess it’s a lone wolf, apparently desperate if it’s braving man-made snares.

“It’s just… you seem a little bit sad, is all.” Ciri kneels beside him. She sets about reconstructing the simple split-stick trap, seemingly unconcerned with the way Geralt’s gaze snaps to her, surprised. Though she’s clearly aiming for nonchalant, he can hear the concern in her voice when she suggests, “You can tell me, you know. If you are.”

Geralt glances away, swallows past the sudden lump in his throat and the tugging in his ribcage. How he of all people had come to be blessed with the girl’s affections, he’ll never understand, but he’s glad for it. “That obvious?” He’s made efforts to circumvent the truth around Ciri in the past, and by now he’s learned it’s hardly worth the effort. She knows him. Somehow, she knows him.

“You’re not very good at hiding it,” is her helpful reply. She studiously avoids eye contact, and it’s as though she knows how uncomfortable Geralt would be under the scrutiny. She probably does. Ciri bites her lip, fiddles pointlessly with a handful of twigs. “It’s Rowan, isn’t it.”

Geralt can’t quite bring himself to reply to that, so he settles on a quiet “Hmm.” They’ve clearly been spending too much time together, if she can read him this well with so little effort.

He watches as Ciri folds her legs to her chest, wraps her arms around them before resting her chin upon her knees. Her voice is just barely above a whisper when she admits, “I think about him all the time, too.”

“You shouldn’t.” Geralt puts his hand on her shoulder, alarmed by the revelation. It’s the last thing he wants her worrying about when she’s already been dealt such an abundance of grief in her short life. “He’s not worth the effort, Ciri.”

“It’s just…” She pulls an unsteady breath, seemingly bracing herself. “I don’t like that you feel responsible when it’s- when really it’s my fault, what happened that day. I know you wouldn’t have left Jaskier behind if I hadn’t been there.”

Geralt feels a surge of familiar anger, disdain for the fallen fucking Mage and all the damage he continues to wreak. “None of that had anything to do with you, Ciri. You’re responsible for no one’s actions but your own.”

She levels him with a truly impressive stare, unconvinced and sad. “You wouldn’t have left him, Geralt. I know you wouldn’t have.”

“No, Ciri-” He rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated. Geralt can’t help but feel as though he’s the least equipped person to handle this, to reassure someone in need of comfort. “Going to Yennefer was the right decision. A decision _I_ made, and I’ll not have you shoulder the blame.”

Ciri sniffs, tilts slowly to the side until Geralt is left to support the bulk of her weight. He wraps an arm around her small shoulders, pulls her in to kiss the top of her head. “I heard you speaking with Yennefer. I know what happened when you… When you went back. You _died_ , Geralt. You died, and you _still_ blame yourself, and I just-”

She breaks off with a quiet sob, and Geralt thinks it’s probably the worst sound he’s ever heard. “I don’t want you to feel that way, Geralt, I _hate_ it.”

“Then I won’t.” He tilts his head until Ciri reluctantly meets his eyes, pale face blotchy with tears. And _fuck_ , he’s going to have to do a better job of handling his shit from here on out, if this is the result it’s going to have. The domino effect of guilt and blame has more than taken its toll on their little group, but this is the last straw: Ciri, miserable and sniffling beside him. 

“I’ll make you a deal. Swear to me you’ll stop blaming yourself, and I’ll swear the same to you in return.” He can try. For Ciri, he can try.

The girl sighs, skeptical and fond all at once. “It isn’t that easy, Geralt.”

“No,” he agrees, “it isn’t. Do you think you could try?”

Ciri stares him down for a long moment, her expression clearly dubious as it is grateful. “Can I think about it?”

Geralt takes a breath, releasing it slowly. He can’t say he’s surprised by her answer. “That’s… diplomatic.” He begins to rise, hauling Ciri up easily beside him. “But you have yourself a deal.”

It’s not where he wishes they were, but it’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my hero, iamq, for being the best beta and also just all around kind.
> 
> I've been feeling super off my game with my writing lately, so please be gentle with me! I promise it'll come around!


	3. Nearly There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AY-YO!!! I am BACK IN IT, BAYBEE.
> 
> Also! The song I straight up stole lyrics from is "My Moon" by Mary Lambert!
> 
> *tw- this chapter contains the death of an animal :(

“Jaskier? Can I ask you something?” Ciri watches as his fingers dance along the strings of his lute, an image made oddly entrancing by the low light of the flickering fire. It’s just the two of them tonight, Geralt and Yennefer having ridden ahead to scout and gather supplies, respectively. While Ciri finds that she already misses them, she’s got to admit an evening of shirking responsibilities with Jaskier has been a pleasant change of pace.

“Ask away, princess.” Jaskier offers her a smile, never pausing as he coaxes a melody from the instrument with near mindless ease. He’s been looking better, these past few weeks, the tension slowly bleeding out of him with each step he takes further from Cintra (and closer to Geralt). 

Ciri doesn’t want to disturb the peace she sees in him now, but she’s afraid if she doesn’t ask, no one will. She’s learned firsthand that no good can come of ignoring problems rather than acting on them.

“Why don’t you play your songs anymore?” She recalls having seen him play at court a handful of times, but try as she might she can’t remember his voice. 

“Ah.” Jaskier’s fingers slow, but he doesn’t stop strumming. “Bit of a complicated question, that.” He bites his lip, considering, and he’s quiet for so long that Ciri nearly retracts her question. Just as she’s about to, he takes a breath. “I suppose it's like having outgrown your favorite toys, in a way. You’re still fond of them, glad of the things they’ve seen you through, but…”

Jaskier sighs and rests the lute in his lap, and Ciri can’t name the look on his face, but she  _ knows it. _ “I think I’ve been waiting to feel like the same person who wrote them. And I’m not. Not anymore.”

And, oh, does Ciri understand what that must feel like. She feels an absolute fraud the majority of the time, these days. Traipsing about, learning to defend herself, attempting to harness the awful power within her. She’d only ever been a princess, before, spoiled royalty, and it’s difficult for her to reconcile the Ciri of nearly a year ago with the person she’s become. She knows what it's like to have your life turned in on itself. To be lost.

She studies the man across from her, tries to imagine the things he’s been through and finds that she can’t. She hadn’t known Jaskier before all this, not truly, but all she wants is for him to be able to move forward, as she’s learning to. “You could always write new songs, if the old ones feel wrong.”

“I could,” Jaskier smiles at that, eyes crinkling. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

“Could you sing one for me? It’s just that Yennefer spent most of yesterday humming ‘Toss a Coin’ while she was angry with Geralt, and I can’t get it out of my head.”  _ That  _ had been funny right up until the point that Geralt had threatened to abandon the lot of them. And then it was funnier.

Jaskier laughs, and from the dubious look on his face she can tell he’s parsed her true intentions, but Ciri is not above subtle manipulation. “Is it truly such a hardship, being subjected to my music? Your grandmother certainly thought so.”

“She did?” Ciri feels the now familiar pang of  _ wistfulness-pain-love  _ she’s come to associate with thoughts of her family. Of course she’d been aware that the Queen had been less than fond of Jaskier; she’d certainly never been one to withhold judgement or… colorful language simply for the sake of civility. Ciri just hadn’t known that  _ Jaskier  _ had been aware of her feelings.

“Not exactly subtle, Queen Calanthe. Magnificent,  _ brave _ , immutable and fierce, yes. But subtle?” He shakes his head, smiling, and Ciri feels a swell of pride at the clear affection in his tone. “Dear child, when I tell you I could feel her gaze  _ physically decimate  _ the whole of my being as I performed...” Jaskier shudders, “She could fell a man with one look, as you must well know.”

Ciri grins, pleased.

“I’d like to think I inherited that ability from her.” Even if she’s not yet perfected it, she will.

“Well you’ve certainly got Geralt wrapped around your finger, I’ll give you that.” Jaskier’s smile settles into something soft and warm. “It’s quite something, watching him be bossed about by a twelve year old. You wield enviable power, my dear.”

Ciri just raises one eyebrow, levels him with a look and watches as Jaskier flushes. She’s well aware by now of Geralt’s willingness to go to great lengths for her, and while she may be able to push him around to a certain extent, it’s nothing next to what Jaskier’s allowed. Just the other night she’d seen him  _ physically remove  _ weapons from the exhausted Witcher’s hands as he attempted to clean them, hauling him up and then demanding he rest. 

He’d stared Geralt down until he reluctantly obeyed, then sent Yennefer and Ciri elsewhere to be silent, making no room for argument. They’d returned hours later to find Geralt’s swords gleaming, Jaskier attending to dinner as the Witcher slept soundly on.

“That’s quite enough of that look, thanks very much.” Jaskier picks up the lute and resumes playing, and it’s slower, this time, softer. Repetitive, gentle chords she’s heard snippets of as she’s falling asleep, and the sound of it makes something in her chest ache pleasantly.

“I will play you  _ one  _ song. And in return, you will shower me with the praise I so deserve, reserving any and all negative judgement. I shall also accept offerings of flowers and fine jewelry, should you be so inclined. Do we have an accord?”

Ciri grins, settling cross-legged onto her bedroll. “I respectfully agree to your terms.”

Jaskier mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘ _ respectful, my arse’ _ , but he’s smiling, so she leaves it be. For now.

“Are you prepared to be swept away, princess? To be carried aloft a tumultuous sea of emotion? To be so  _ truly moved  _ that you might weep for the beauty of my ethereal lyrics and dulcet tones? Honestly, you might do well to physically brace yourself, else-”

“ _ Jaskier.” _

“Yes, alright, no need to be so Geralt-y. Honestly. We’re all civil, here.” He gives her one final considering look, laughing when he sees what she can only imagine to be exasperation in her features. And then he plays. 

Ciri doesn’t mean to, but she finds herself holding her breath. She’s not sure what she expected- something laced with pain, something bright with hope- but she finds it’s a touch of both. The song is almost a lullaby, almost an elegy. The lyrics are  _ so  _ obviously meant for Geralt, and she wishes the Witcher were here to hear them. She wonders if Jaskier has ever played this for him, and she hopes that he has. It’s clearly something he’s been meaning to say if he hasn’t already, and by the end Ciri is left feeling vaguely honored that he’d trusted her enough to share such a simple, raw thing with her at all.

He’s clearly not expecting to be barrelled over by a hug, if Jaskier’s shriek and desperate maneuvering to shelter his lute are any indication. Still, he manages to place it a safe distance away, wrapping his arms around her with a breathless laugh. “My dear, you’ve clearly been starved for entertainment if this is the reaction I’ve garnered.”

“Shut up.” Ciri punches him in the arm, though she’s not quite angry enough to release him. “I loved it, Jaskier.”

The Bard only hums in response, but she feels him press a kiss to the top of her head. “Alright, it’s off to bed with you. Yennefer will have my hide if you’re not fully rested by the time she’s returned.”

Ciri falls asleep that night fearing no nightmares, Jaskier’s simple song playing on a loop in her head.

  
  


_ If I were the ocean, _

_ I could pull back for you _

_ And I could fill up for you; _

_ ‘Cause you are the moon _

_ And I am but the sea, _

_ The wide blue, _

_ Staring up at you… _

~

Looking back, she knows it’s her fault. She never should have asked it of Jaskier, never should have begged. She’d just felt so  _ helpless _ , so truly awful while she watched the half-starved wolfdog nosing mournfully at it’s unmoving pup. Yennefer had refused to interfere, regret clear in her voice and the lines of her face, but Ciri had known -  _ she had known- _ that Jaskier would feel the need to help. 

He’d been doing so well controlling his magic, learning to pass energy between things he’d formerly thought incomparable. He’d graduated, much to Yennefer’s pleased surprise, from the simple give and take of flowers-to-flowers, grass-to-grass to more complicated magic. The day he’d discovered himself capable of healing one of Geralt’s wounds at the price of a stretch of dead greenery had been memorable for all of them in it’s joy, and it’s with that thought that Ciri drags Jaskier away from camp, Geralt following thoughtfully behind.

The Witcher frowns as they crouch at a safe distance away, although the wolfdog barely seems to notice their presence. “It looks as though we’ve discovered our thief.”

They’d been finding a fair amount of their snares raided of late, so much so that Geralt had taken to setting more than was strictly necessary. Once, on a particularly fruitful day, Ciri had seen him leave a particularly plump rabbit behind, claiming it to be no good - though Ciri had seen no such evidence. They’d both heard the shuffle of a grateful creature behind them as they’d left. 

It clearly hadn’t been enough. The wolfdog is skin and bones, and from the way she’s sprawled, ribs bellowing, it looks as though she lacks the strength to support herself. Whether she’d been starving herself for the sake of keeping her pup fed, it doesn’t matter now; the brown and black ball of fluff laying limply by her side, unmoving save for the occasional breath. Ciri wonders how many pups she’d truly had to begin with, how many she’d lost.

“Can we help them? Please?” She can’t stand it, can’t stand the thought of leaving her to die beside her baby.

“Ciri,” Jaskier’s voice is pained, and she knows what he’s going to say before he says it. “I’m sorry, love, I think they’re beyond saving at this point.”

“But we have to  _ try,  _ don’t we?” She looks between Jaskier and Geralt, pleading. “We’ve been feeding her scraps for  _ weeks,  _ we should have known she had a puppy. We should have done  _ more. _ ” This never would have happened if they’d known. If she’d realized.

“Ciri, if we tried to save everything that needed saving, we’d know nothing else. We’ve got to let nature take its course, whether we like it or not.” Geralt sets a comforting hand on her shoulder, but it doesn’t have the desired effect.

“Geralt,  _ please.  _ I’m not asking for everything, I’m only asking for  _ this.  _ Can we at least try? Before we give up, can we at least try to help them?” She turns her gaze to Jaskier, watches him trade looks with the Witcher in that silent language of theirs.

Jaskier heaves a great breath as Geralt’s lips thin in disapproval. “I’ll try. I can’t promise you it will work, but I’ll try.”

“Fuck.” Geralt catches Jaskier by the sleeve as they slowly rise, pulling the bard to a safe distance behind him. “If you’re going to insist on doing this, at least stay behind me. She could still attack.”

It doesn’t end up being a concern. She’s so weak, or perhaps so despondent, that by the time the pair reach them she just looks at them wearily, whining. The wolfdog tenses when Jaskier reaches a tentative hand to lay it lightly upon her flank, but it’s only a fleeting thing. She seems comforted by his presence, by the connection Ciri knows by now they’re both feeling. She’d felt it herself, when Jaskier had healed her.

Whatever the animal seems to be gaining from the connection, however, it’s clear that Jaskier feels no such peace. Ciri winces as his breath suddenly hitches, eyes bright with unshed tears that he tries and fails to hide from her view. He shakes his head when Geralt reaches for him, concerned. “She’s too ill, Ciri, I’m sorry. I can’t… I don’t think I can bring her back from this. It isn’t a simple scratch; she’s already nearly gone.”

Ciri can’t help her quiet sob, try as she might to hold it back. She’s not felt this kind of helpless misery since. Since Cintra. “The puppy?” She hates the way her voice sounds, small and breaking.

Jaskier’s face is pained as he looks to Geralt, and she knows it’s due more to her own grief than anything. She watches as his shoulders slump and he takes a deep breath, easing forward even as Geralt shakes his head in quiet dissent.

Slowly, so as not to alarm her, Jaskier crouches beside the weary dog and her pup. “Hello, sweet love. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.” Much to Geralt’s obvious dismay, he reaches out and pets her giant head, hand sinking into the thick fur. The dog nuzzles into his touch with a whine, and it’s awful to hear.

“Shhh, I know. I know, beautiful thing.” Jaskier’s voice is high and thin as he continues to stroke her. “I’m going to try and help your baby now, love.”

Ciri doesn’t know if the dog can somehow understand his intentions, but she doesn’t snap or growl when Jaskier gently lifts the pup. He cradles it to his chest, letting out a watery laugh when it shifts just a bit in his grasp. “Hello there, little one.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s tone is grave, though his eyes are sympathetic. “Are you sure about this?”

“Not in the slightest, no.” Jaskier’s gaze doesn’t leave the pup as he scratches softly between its ears. “But it feels… I feel like I have to try.” 

At Geralt’s solemn nod, Ciri turns away, hugging her arms to herself tightly. She doesn’t want to see if it doesn’t work. She doesn’t think she can take it, so she waits, tearful and tense. She’s so dreading the results, the inevitable failure, that after a few awful moments the sound of high-pitched barking nearly startles her to death. She twirls to see a cat-sized bundle of fluff bouncing around in a frenzy, and when it veers toward her she scoops it up, laughing. The pup is anything but feral, wiggling and wagging it’s tail and gnawing gently on her hand with determination. She turns to thank Jaskier, to celebrate, but she stops short at what she sees.

Geralt, knelt with his arms around Jaskier, holding the bard to his chest with an unreadable expression. Jaskier is crying quietly into his hands, face hidden, shoulders shaking. He leans into Geralt as the Witcher rubs his back, gently shushing, and it’s then that Ciri sees it. Or rather, it’s then that she doesn’t see it.

There’s no dead patch of earth, no wilting greenery, nothing that might suggest Jaskier had taken any kind of energy to heal the pup. But it’s mother lies still, her poor head resting between her tired paws, eyes unseeing and empty. And Ciri can’t help it, she  _ bawls  _ at the sight, pressing her face into the still wriggling pup’s fur. It’s not how it was supposed to go - the pup healed at the expense of its mother. She’d wanted them to be together. They were supposed to be together.

She never should have intervened, never should have pushed it. Not now, with Jaskier’s guilt and grief heavy in the air. He’s clearly trying to collect himself as Geralt motions Ciri near, but the moment Jaskier’s eyes meet hers his expression shatters and he curls in on himself. He tenses when Ciri reaches him, releasing the pup in favor of wrapping her arms around his thin shoulders instead.

“I tried to stop it. Ciri, I swear I tried.” Jaskier can’t seem to look at them, head bowed and fists clenched in the fabric of Geralt’s shirt. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“We know. We know you didn’t.” Geralt kisses his hair, misery clear in the tightness of his jaw. He cuts his gaze to Ciri, apologetic. “She was nearing the end as it was. To go like this is a blessing.”

Jaskier releases something between a laugh and a sob, incredulous and pained. “ _ Geralt  _ I fucking-” He gestures to his own chest with an unsteady hand, fingers trembling. “I fucking felt her. I felt her go, I  _ took  _ her, I couldn’t-” He breaks off, choked, when the puppy playfully attempts to infiltrate their circle, yipping happily.

“Ciri.” Geralt sets his hand at the back of Jaskier’s head, his body curling protectively over the bard’s, and Jaskier grasps at him desperately. “Take the pup back to camp, find him something to eat. Please.”

And as much as Ciri doesn’t want to leave them, she doesn’t think she can stand to be there for even a moment more. It isn’t much better when she shortly arrives back at camp, Yennefer’s disappointed gaze falling to the small bundle in her arms.

“Please don’t say it.”Ciri tries to blink away her tears, despondent, hating for Yen to see her like this. She already knows. She already knows she’s done wrong. “Please, Yennefer.”

The Witch sighs, and though there’s something empathetic in her eyes, Ciri’s heart absolutely drops at the obvious displeasure she can see there as well. Yennefer delicately lifts her chin, indicating the empty span of woods behind them. “Is the Bard harmed?” Then, after Ciri shakes her head, “He should not have interfered.  _ You  _ should not have asked it of him.”

But she still pulls Ciri in for an embrace. She still holds her when she cries.

When Geralt and Jaskier finally join them just before sundown, their hands are stained with earth, dirt trapped beneath their nails. Ciri follows them back to the grave the next morning to lay a simple marker upon the mound. They’re not likely to see this place again, Ciri knows, but she’s comforted by the thought that someday someone might see it and know. That even after they’ve gone, someone might find the grave and know that the wolfdog had mattered. That even for a moment, she’d been loved.

They end up keeping the pup. Ciri names him Grub, and pretends not to notice that Jaskier won’t so much as look at him.

~ 

They've nearly passed through Aedirn when they come upon a stretch of weather so harsh that they’re forced to seek shelter at an Inn. It’s unseasonably cold for the time of year, and Ciri has been watching Geralt’s increasing agitation grow in time with his concern. They need to move faster than this if they’re to reach Kaer Morhen before the worst of the weather hits, but with both Ciri and Jaskier handling the storms rather poorly, they’ve got no other choice.

“Praise the gods, a  _ fucking  _ bed! I’d nearly forgotten such a thing existed.” Jaskier allows himself to fall face down onto the mattress, limbs all askew. He raises one of his arms only to let it flop uselessly back down with a thud. “Geralt. Geralt, my body’s in shock. Look at me, Geralt. I’ve died.”

“And yet you still fucking complain.” Geralt’s face is fond as he begins to tug off his boots. “How is that?”

Making no effort to lift his head from the blanket, Jaskier forms a loose circle with his fist, jerking his arm lazily back and forth a few times before splaying his fingers wide.  _ Whatever  _ it means, it causes the Witcher to bark out a surprised laugh, golden eyes warm with mirth.

“Yes, let’s further corrupt the child, shall we?” Yennefer’s unimpressed voice has Ciri instinctually straightening her posture, though she’s yet to figure out why. “As if you’ve not already done enough. Come, Ciri, let’s leave these beasts be.”

They unpack their things in their room across the hall, where Ciri is secretly pleased to discover a single bed. She’s grown used to sleeping safely wedged between the others, and while she’s longed for the warmth of an Inn, she can admit to herself that she’d been a bit uncomfortable with the idea of sleeping so far apart.

Dinner is a blessing. She’s never been so glad to be served a stew of such dubious origin, but it’s thick and rich and full of vegetables, and after weeks of lean rabbits and jerky, Ciri thinks it may be her new favorite food. The Innkeeper is kind enough to present Grub with a bowl full of scraps, which the pup rapidly inhales from his spot under the table.

“Do we really have to do this, this far north?” Ciri indicates herself; dressed in trousers and a vest with her long hair hidden under a cap - the very same trick she’d used to wander unnoticed in Cintra. Yennefer herself is as dressed down as she’ll allow herself to get, though she’s still so obviously radiant that Ciri isn’t entirely sure why she’s bothered.

Yennefer only dips her head slightly, but it has the desired effect of saying ‘ _ if it wasn’t, would I really be dressed like this?’  _ “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Eat your stew.”

Ciri smiles down at her bowl, aware by now that the majority of Yen’s impressively flat sarcasm tends to translate as affection. “How much longer do you think it will be?”

“That depends.” An elegant shrug. “If the weather allows, less than a fortnight. Do you believe yourself prepared?”

“Of course I’m prepared. We’ve been preparing for weeks.” Ciri lifts her chin high, projecting confidence like she’s been taught. Nevermind the butterflies in her stomach or the curling dread that her presence might ultimately be unwelcome or rejected. The idea of disappointing Geralt’s mentor, and consequently Geralt, fills her with unease.

Yennefer narrows her eyes, clearly seeing straight through her, but before she can speak, a wide hand claps down onto her shoulder. Ciri watches as her expression goes cool and murderous, gazing first at the hand itself, and then slowly upward to its owner. 

Any man with a modicum of common sense or self preservation might have balked, but  _ this  _ oaf has clearly been robbed of his senses several ales past. “Come to your senses then, love?”

“Come to be relieved of yours?” Ciri knows for a fact that the dagger Yennefer now wields had not been there mere seconds ago; now, it glints dangerously at the man’s crotch.

“Meant no harm!” He slurs, laughing as he raises his hands in defeat. He stumbles backward a few steps before righting himself, arms raised at his sides for balance. “Saw you come in with that Witcher scum, is all.”

“ _ What did you just say _ ?” For a moment, Ciri is so shocked that she thinks she must have misheard him. The moment his words sink in, however, she can feel herself near vibrating with rage. She clenches her fist around her spoon because it’s the only weapon she’s got, knowing she must look anything but threatening but not caring in the slightest. “Take it back.”

The man laughs, and Ciri clenches her jaw as he speaks. “Spoon me to death, will ya?” He calls back to his mates, equally as drunk if not moreso. “Look at this one, all up in arms over a mutated monsterfucker.”

Ciri doesn’t remember standing, but she  _ does  _ come to her senses halfway through her booted foot arcing upward toward the man’s jewels. She decides to give her kick a little extra  _ oomph,  _ and stares the ogre down as he collapses to his knees, grasping himself. “Take it back, or a boot will the  _ best  _ thing to happen to your shriveled fuc-”

“Alright, alright, that’s enough.” The Barkeep steps between them, easing Ciri back with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “C’mon gents, best take your man and go, lest he finds himself divested of his treasures at the hands of a feral infant.”

And Ciri’s got something to say to  _ that,  _ but she reluctantly keeps quiet when she feels a gentle tap at her ankle. She turns back to Yennefer, ready to face the consequences of her actions as the group of men drag their fallen brother to his feet. And finds the Witch is beaming.

“Have I ever told you, child, how very fond I am of you?” The pride in Yennefer’s eyes fills her with warmth. “I believe such an occasion is deserving of celebration.” She reaches out and squeezes Ciri’s hand. “Why don’t you bring Grub upstairs and ask the boys if they’d like to join us shopping?”

It feels like a trick, but Ciri’s not one to question her blessings. “I’ll be quick!” She brushes past the drunk brute, causing him to stumble on her way to the stairs, Grub trotting faithfully behind. It’s with reluctance that she settles the whining pup in their room, though she knows he’s likely to fall asleep the instant she leaves. It’s been a while since the lot of them have done anything purely for the fun of it, and it’s difficult for her to quell her excitement as she reaches Geralt’s door. And freezes.

They’re not exactly yelling, but Ciri knows a fight when she hears one. Geralt’s gravelly, low growl of ‘ _ Jaskier’ _ , and the Bard’s desperate ‘ _ Fuck, Geralt!’ _ , like he’s trying and failing to stay quiet. Thumps that can only be angry stomping. Ciri’s heart sinks because they’d been so affectionate with each other of late, and she’d thought the Inn would be a pleasant respite for them both. She decides to leave them to it, knowing that her presence will only delay them working things out. She resolves to find them both gifts at the market, something to make them happy just in case.

~

“Well.” Yennefer breezes past Geralt as he steps aside, motioning them into the room. “You two certainly seem to have made up.”

“Sorry, we  _ what  _ now?” Jaskier tracks her progress through the room, eyes wide and questioning as she sits heavily beside him on the bed. He takes the bottle of wine Yennefer gifts him with eager hands, uncorking it immediately to take a sip.

“Ciri heard you fighting.” She blinks in shocked disbelief when Jaskier suddenly chokes, spraying a fine mist of wine onto his shirt. She ends up pounding him on the back as he gasps for breath, concerned, but her eyes light up the moment she cuts her gaze to Geralt. “So it was a  _ good  _ fight, then?”

Geralt grunts noncommittally as he hands Jaskier a glass of water, though Ciri can see his lips are twitching oddly. “People fight, Yen.”

“ _ Apparently. _ ” She takes the bottle back from Jaskier as he settles, flushed all the way up from his chest from the effort of coughing. Geralt sets a gentle hand on the back of his neck, checking in before leaning down for a quick kiss, and Ciri groans.

“I  _ will  _ throw up, I’ve had some  _ very questionable  _ stew today, Geralt.” She sets about retrieving her finds from her pack, excited to disperse them. “I got you things just in case you were still angry when we got back, but now you can pretend I’ve just been very thoughtful.”

She presents them with their shoddily wrapped parcels, impatient for them to be opened. “Why  _ were  _ you fighting? I thought you’d be pleased to have your own room.  _ Especially  _ you, Jaskier.”

“An excellent observation, princess, and an even better question.” Jaskier laughs, breathy, picking intently at the gift paper. “One I’m sure Geralt will be happy to answer.”

Ciri turns to see Geralt clenching his jaw, irritated, but his expression goes suspiciously blank when he notices Ciri eyeing him. “Uh, yeah.” He clears his throat as Yennefer makes a high strangled sound from her seat on the bed. “It’s just. The first time we’ve had a room to ourselves, so.”

“It’s just been a very long time since I’ve shared a room with someone.” Jaskier interjects. He smiles, sweet, and Ciri’s annoyed to see he’s paused halfway through unwrapping his gift. “I’ve not even been able to share a room with  _ myself _ of late, which has been  _ hideously  _ awful, so sharing one with our darling Witcher here was a bit..”

“Overwhelming,” Geralt provides, and Jaskier echoes him with a nod.

“But we’ve worked it out, now, so no need for concern.” Jaskier grins, and his eyes are bright. “As a matter of fact, I think we make rather excellent roommates, don’t you, Geralt?”

“Oh, my gods,  _ alright.  _ Can you open your gifts now? Please?” Ciri tries to keep the whine out of her voice, but she’s tired and also fairly certain that several months have passed since she first handed them their presents. She shoves Geralt’s shoulder, annoyed when the Witcher doesn’t budge an inch.

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes fond, and Ciri feels a surge of affection for him so strongly she can hardly stand it. It’s nice, being able to make Geralt smile. “Apologies, princess.” He unwraps his package with care, sliding the contents into his open palm, and Ciri watches with poorly restrained anticipation for his reaction.

“You got this for me?” Something in Geralt’s voice makes her feel uncharacteristically shy, but Ciri nods nonetheless. It’s only a book of Heraldic Animals, one Ciri had noticed Geralt thumbing through several towns ago, but from the look on his face she may as well have gifted him a trunk full of jewels. She’s a little taken aback when the Witcher pulls her in for a hug, just a little too tight to be comfortable.

Ciri laughs and tries to get her arms around him. “Yennefer  _ paid  _ for it. I only found it.”

“Thank you.” Geralt’s breath sways her hair into her face, and she feels him press a kiss to the top of her head. She barely has time to recover before she’s receiving similar treatment from a teary-eyed Jaskier, clearly overjoyed with his new leather-bound notebook, embossed in flowers.

It’s a good day. For the first time in a  _ long  _ time, a really good day.

Ciri lies awake that night, too over excited to sleep even as Grub cuddles against her side, quietly snoring. She strokes his head absently while staring at nothing, lost to a sort of day-dreamy haze. She’s on the verge of drifting off when it hits her, and it strikes her so suddenly and so strongly that the sudden tensing of her body wakes both Yennefer and Grub.

“Yennefer?” She blinks up at the ceiling, yearning for the sweet release of death. “They weren’t arguing, earlier.”

The Witch is silent for such a long time that Ciri begins to think she won’t answer, but then she sighs, loud in the quiet of the room. “No. They weren’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked this one as much I liked writing it! Thank you as always to iamq!!!
> 
> The ENTIRE "incident" bit was inspired by a comic I saw on tumblr where Ciri walks in on Yennefer pegging Geralt and doesn't understand what's going on til years later, but I couldn't find it to credit it!


	4. Storms and Sparks

“So. You and Geralt…” Yennefer raises her brows suggestively, enjoying the flush it brings to every visible inch of the Bard’s skin.

“Oh-ho, absolutely not! We are not having this discussion, Witch, now, or ever. I honestly believe-” Jaskier brings one long-fingered hand to his chin, feigning deep thought. “Nay, more than that, I _know…_ that I should prefer death. I shall happily embrace the end before I partake in this particular conversation with the likes of _you_.” 

Despite his insistence his eyes are bright, and Yennefer is glad for it; had she realized, once upon a time, that joy such as this would eventually become a thing of rarity for him, she likes to think she would have encouraged his nonsense more. Happiness is a good look on him.

They sit a few moments in companionable silence; Ciri fast asleep, Geralt meditating a few feet away beneath a pale willow. It’s a pleasant sort of quiet, something she’s come to both appreciate and resent from this new Jaskier, and she makes no effort to fight her smile when he immediately disrupts it to speak.

“That _stamina_ , though.” 

Yennefer laughs, surprising herself with the volume. She and Geralt had certainly been less than ideal, but she’s willing to concede it’s an aspect of their relationship that she misses. Mortals are so rarely able to keep up. “It certainly is… admirable.”

Jaskier throws his arms wide, mock outraged and hissing so as not to wake the child (or, she imagines, disturb the current object of his ire). “Yen, where the _fuck_ was that when I was eighteen and,” he begins to make a decidedly vulgar gesture with his hands before thinking twice and awkwardly folding them away, “far better equipped to repeatedly rise to the occasion?”

“When you were barely more than a child and Geralt nearing eighty?” Yennefer deadpans. “That must have been a terrible loss for the both of you. My condolences.”

“Ugh.” She watches as Jaskier shudders, wrapping himself more securely in the Witcher’s oversized cloak. There’s a chill in the night air, yes, but it isn’t _that_ cold. “Well, I don’t love _that._ Point taken.”

Yennefer settles into her furs, studying the Bard as he fiddles with his lute. Their current path is a difficult one, taking it’s obvious toll on the lot of them, and she’s pleased to note that Jaskier’s cheeks seem to be filling out regardless. Pleased with the way sinewy muscle has begun to form where, only a short time ago, he’d been hardly more than skin and bone. 

She finds herself wishing, not for the first time, that human minds were capable of healing just as quickly as the bodies that contain them. 

“I’m happy for you, you know. I can’t say that for many.”

“Nor would you if it were true, I imagine,” Jaskier quips, but he smiles to remove some of the sting. 

If Yennefer possessed a goblet in this moment she would raise it in a toast, but she settles for inclining her head in acknowledgment instead. He isn’t wrong. “And you?”

Jaskier’s expressive brows ascend past the mess of his unruly hair, expression open and guileless. “Sorry, what now?”

“Are you happy, Bard?” It’s a dangerous question, she knows, but she feels compelled to ask. She’s become very protective of the human- reluctantly, at first, and now with a touch more ferocity. To see him subjected to the very worst the world has to offer, and _still_ come out the other side with the ability to smile… Well. He’s stronger than she’d previously given him credit for. 

Stronger, and still courageously kind where others might have succumbed to bitterness and hate in the face of such atrocious cruelty. If there’s anything Yennefer can respect, it’s that.

“Ah.” Jaskier’s smile tips at the edges, wilting almost imperceptibly, but Yennefer notices. She _also_ doesn’t miss the furtive, almost guilty glance he spares for their contemplative Witcher, lost as he is in meditation. “Yeah, of course. Of course I am. ‘ _Am I happy?’_ How could I be anything but, O’ Sorceress mine?”

He makes a grand, sweeping gesture, indicating the oppressive and slumbering wood surrounding them. “Are we not sat in the very lap of luxury herself? I, for one, love a good dirt-based sleeping accommodation. Just the other morning I woke to find the most stunning green beetle tangled in my very own hair! A bold fashion statement, if I say so myself, though not likely to be repeated.”

“Yes,” Yennefer intones, “I recall the screaming. Geralt awoke with sword in hand, believing we’d been happened upon by a banshee. Do you intend to remain charmingly elusive in an effort to distract me, or shall I ask you again?”

“I intend to remain charmingly elusive in an effort to distract you.” Jaskier’s smile is a small, albeit warm thing, his eyes luminously clear in the flickering light of the fire. “Do you recall not one minute ago when we were rather awkwardly discussing my blossoming sex life? I miss it. I miss that conversation. Let’s go back to that, shall we? You first.”

“ _Jaskier_.”

He sighs near-dejectedly, posture slumping, and Yennefer feels a momentary pang of guilt. She wonders whether she should be pressing him like this, whether it’s more dangerous than letting quietly nefarious concerns go unsaid. She thinks of her time at Aretuza, those piteous first days spent alone and unheard and unloved, and decides that it’s not. 

“Bard, I’m…” Yennefer takes a much-needed breath, casting her gaze upward as though the heavens might hold some hidden answer within their depths. She finds, as ever, that they don’t.

“I’m trying to think of the right thing to say, but that’s shit. It’s a shit thing that you’ve been through, and it’s shit that you’re meant to move on from something so _fucking_ vile with fuck-all to guide you. If there is a right thing to say I don’t know it, and if I were in your position, I probably wouldn’t want to hear it anyway. But I’d like to know. If there’s ever anything you feel like you can’t say because you think that no one wants to hear it, I’d like to know.”

And Yennefer… she’s seen more, _lived_ through more than any of their small company, but she’ll not forget this moment. She’ll not forget the look on Jaskier’s face, honest and raw and _flayed open_ . She’ll not forget the hollow-chested punch of gratitude and agony and _love_ curling around her and within her, the tendrils of Jaskier’s soft magic, and she wonders if he’s even aware that he’s doing it.

Jaskier’s voice, when he speaks, is achingly quiet. Achingly clear.

“I’m a fucking mess, Yen.”

They’re close enough to touch, and so Yennefer does. She reaches for the Bard’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, and swallows around the lump in her throat when Jaskier presses a lasting kiss to her knuckles. His blue eyes are watery and bright, and he swipes at them hurriedly with his free hand. “Gods, that’s still _fucking_ embarrassing. You’d think I’d be used to it.” 

He chokes out a quiet rumble of a laugh, carefully removing his hand from hers in order to indicate where Geralt rests several feet away. “Half my life spent pining after that beautiful, _lovely_ moron and we’ve finally- he finally-” Jaskier takes a moment to compose himself, and the smile he offers is somehow both precious and weak. “It took him _years_ to admit we were even friends, Yennefer. Actual years. And now not a single day passes without him telling me he loves me.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“ _No,_ fuck, it’s-” He passes his hands over his face in frustration. “It’s everything. Literally everything I’ve wanted. But if I closed my eyes right now and opened them to find that none of this was real, I wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised. And on my worst days I feel like I wouldn’t even care. That it wouldn’t matter if I’d never left at all.”

Something in Yennefer’s gut twists unpleasantly at the bleakness in his expression, the flatness of his tone. She knows it. She’s felt it. She prays to the gods that he never tries to take things as far as she once had, and her stomach plummets at the thought.

“Jaskier.” She takes his chin in her hand when he begins to look away, forcing his gaze, and the vulnerability she finds there strikes her like a physical blow. Suddenly it becomes that much more important that he understands. “You once told me that my _‘music’_ sounded like a demonic orchestra performed by drunken children, do you recall?”

_That_ earns her a broken smile, a surprised huff of laughter, and Jaskier nods. “Conducted by a fully lucid Valdo Marx. I remember.”

“You’ve _also_ said, rather inelegantly, that you can feel when something is wrong when someone’s music goes to shit.” She waits for Jaskier’s nod, cuts off what she’s sure is going to be an argument about his perceived elegance before he’s even fully opened his mouth.

“What does my music sound like to you right now?”

Jaskier narrows his eyes, obviously dubious of her intentions, but he complies nonetheless. She can feel his magic brushing inquisitively against her own as his eyes go glassy and distant, and she reminds herself once more that she’s yet to train him out of the habit. Jaskier’s tendency to become so consumed by his powers that he loses touch with the outside world frightens her; it leaves him far too unaware, far too unguarded.

A small, wounded sound in the back of Jaskier’s throat catches her attention, and she watches as he comes back to himself blinking. It takes him a moment before he’s able to meet her eyes, and when he does she knows- she _knows-_ that he understands.

Jaskier clears his throat, raises his chin defiantly as though he’s gathering strength in the face of an oncoming storm, and there’s that bravery again. “You’re worried, and afraid. For me.”

“And?” She prompts.

His mouth twists into something that manages to be both genuine and wry. “You like me.”

They both know what he actually means, what he’d truly felt in his little delve into Yennefer’s emotions. _Love_ . The fierce, familial love a sister might have for a particularly troublesome, slightly idiotic younger sibling. She’s come to love him. She will not lose him. Not to anything or anyone, and certainly not to himself. She can’t say it in such explicit terms, every bit as uncomfortable with the idea of voicing it as Jaskier would be with hearing it, but she can at least make him _feel_ it. 

She’s always been shit with words, anyway.

“You’ve irritated me into caring about you, Bard.” Yennefer shoves at his shoulder, clearly catching him off guard if the way he nearly tips over is any indication. “So the next time your evil fucking demons try to tell you that it doesn’t matter that you’ve made it, that you’ve survived, I only ask you remember that it matters to us. If that darkness comes and you haven’t the strength to fight it, know that we’re here to battle by your side.”

All at once Jaskier’s face seems to crumble, lips twisting, and Yennefer is seized by the feeling that she’s managed to say something terribly wrong, managed to fuck things up irrevocably. She takes a deep breath, rapidly searching for the words to paint over her uncharacteristic honesty with a thick layer of sarcasm, but she never gets the chance to find them.

“Wow.” Jaskier’s voice is thick as he wipes at his eyes and he lets out a wet sounding laugh, looking at her with such warmth that she can barely stand it. “That was just. Really embarrassing for you, Yennefer.”

It shocks a laugh out of her, and if Yennefer finds that her own eyes are stinging, it’s only because the smoke from the fire is particularly thick. “Shut the fuck up, Bard.”

She’s changed her mind. Nothing and no one is permitted to harm him, barring herself. He’s her family, after all.

  
  


~

She wakes at some point in the night with the distinct feeling that something is amiss, and is immediately alarmed to find Jaskier’s empty bedroll in disarray. She surges up, casting her gaze about wildly before repetitive movements to the right catch her attention, and, well. She supposes she can forgive him this one transgression.

The Bard is curled up on his side beneath a small mountain of cloaks and furs, his head pillowed in Geralt’s lap. The Witcher himself offers her a lazy shrug, head tipped back to rest against the same willow he’d been meditating under earlier, one wide hand carding through Jaskier’s unruly hair. His expression seems to be attempting exasperation, but all Yennefer can see is an aching sort of fondness.

“Said he couldn’t sleep.” Geralt’s low rasp just barely reaches her from across the small clearing. “I was trapped.”

“Clearly.” Yennefer arches an eyebrow, amused. At this point, she’d not be surprised to find the Witcher carefully assembling a full bed from bits and bobs around the forest if Jaskier so much as complained of an ache. All the while grumbling, of course. “If only you had the strength to lift him.”

“Hm. Cute.” Geralt frowns at her, glowering, but it’s a half hearted attempt at best. He inclines his head toward the slumbering Bard, keeping his voice at a careful murmur so as not to disturb him. “He hasn’t been feeling well. He needs to rest.”

Yennefer takes into consideration the light flush of Jaskier’s cheeks, the dark hollows beneath his eyes, and decides to leave Geralt be. The Witcher has been understandably overprotective for obvious reasons, and as much as she enjoys giving him shit, even _Yennefer_ finds it difficult to be sarcastic and biting when Geralt cradles his other half like something fragile and precious and fleeting. 

She’s _tempted_ to tease him when Jaskier’s sudden snore causes Geralt to gaze down at him as though he’s gone and hung the moon, but, well… far be it from her to act as the Witcher’s eclipse.

~

The storm hits when they’re roughly two days out from the fortress, vicious and unrelenting and _cold._ Geralt is in his element, armed as he is with the low body temperature of a Witcher, but the rest of them have lost feeling in their extremities hours ago. They can’t afford to slow down or stop with no real shelter in sight, and Yennefer is reluctant to use her powers in such close proximity to Kaer Morhen. The last thing they need is a large, likely traceable surge of magic leading straight to their future source of refuge.

“This,” Ciri grits out, Grub bundled to her chest in a makeshift sling of furs, “is an _unenviable situation._ ”

Jaskier barks out a laugh, hoarse and wheezing. He’s several days into a nasty cold, Ciri not all that far behind, and Yennefer takes a moment to be grateful that such illnesses are no longer a concern for her. “Agreed, princess. But how, may I ask, did you decide upon that particular phrasing?” 

Ciri smiles with only a hint of sadness. “Mousesack used to say that, for _everything_.” She coughs into her shoulder, congested, and mumbles a quiet apology to the surprised pup in her arms. Grub, for his part, simply burrows himself once more into the furs.

The girl shuffles back into Yennefer’s relative warmth from their seat upon her stallion, pulling one of the Witch’s arms around her, and something protective and fierce blossoms in Yennefer’s chest. A child seeking comfort in _her_. Her, of all people. She pulls Ciri tightly to her with her free arm, and if she whispers a gentle warming spell into being, it’s nobody’s business but their own.

Ciri tips her head back in order to give her a grateful smile, her relief obvious. Now if only something could be done about the gales of icy snow stinging at their exposed skin, determined to numb and obscuring their view.

“ _Ger_ alt?” Jaskier’s tone is sing-song as he buries his face between the Witcher’s shoulder blades, his rough voice muffled by the thick leather of the cloak. “Are we, perhaps, markedly closer to your wondrous home of legend? More so than we were the last time I inquired?”

Geralt heaves a sigh of the long-suffering, the lines of his face tight. He’d been dreading the onslaught of winter weather more than any of them, and considering the harsh, unforgiving landscape that surrounds them, Yennefer can understand why. 

“When you last inquired several minutes ago? Now that you mention it,” the Witcher’s tone is flat, tired, and underneath it all, amused. “No.”

“Ugh.” Jaskier allows his arms to go slack for what Yennefer can only imagine to be dramatic purposes, before immediately thinking the better of it as he begins to list to the side. “Geralt, I am an _artist._ My body is a _temple_ , a delicately constructed temple sat among the bluffs, shielded from the elements, and-” He pauses to sneeze before immediately succumbing to a fit of wet sounding coughs, and continues undeterred when they eventually subside. 

The fact that it leaves him all but gasping between words doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest, but Yennefer doesn't miss the way his Witcher’s shoulders slowly tense. 

“And my foundation is _crumbling_ ,Geralt.” Jaskier nudges the Witcher’s back with his forehead, prompting a less than impressed look thrown over Geralt’s shoulder. “ _Crumbling_. Like so much dust in the wind. Oh, how the continent would mourn.”

“ _I’m_ mourning you right _now_ , Bard. And you’re not even gone.” Yennefer gifts him with a dazzling smile, sharp around the edges, and is pleased when it earns her a withering glare. 

“Geralt, the Witch is being mean to me in my time of need.” Jaskier nudges him once more, sniffling. It’s obviously more to do with his current health than it is his emotional state, but he’s decidedly unashamed to use it to his advantage. “Be a love and chastise her, will you? I’ve not the strength.”

Geralt, as expected, sighs. He spares Yennefer a glance, expression flat, and she can see the plea written there as clear as day - _don’t get him started, not with so much ground left to cover_. “Don’t be mean to him in his time of need.”

Somehow, he never even sees the snowball coming. It’s a decision Yennefer soon comes to regret.

~

They’re fucked. Less than two days out, and they’re fucked.

In keeping with the spirit of their journey, the storm has only gotten worse. They’re stumbling through a turbulent sea of snow, visibility so low that they’re left to rely solely on the instincts of the horses to guide them. Both Jaskier and Geralt have ceased their grumbling and complaining in favor of miserable silence, and it’s that more than anything that sets Yennefer on edge.

“Witcher.” Yennefer flexes numb fingers around the reins, narrows her eyes in vain against the stinging of icy snow. “How certain are you that we’re close to shelter?”

Geralt sighs, a heavy sound. “As certain as I can be, deprived of my senses.” 

That is to say, not at all.

According to the Witcher, they should have come upon a lake hours ago, a worn down path which would lead them to a derelict homestead the wolves of Kaer Morhen had been known to take shelter in. With the weather obscuring their vision, Yennefer has no idea if they’ve managed to keep to the proper path, if they’re even wandering in the correct direction at all.

They have to keep moving. No matter where they might be headed, they need to keep moving. They haven’t got a choice. Even if Yennefer felt comfortable with the idea of creating a portal she has no idea where they’re going, and she’s too exhausted to trust herself plucking the exact right coordinates from Geralt’s mind. 

They’ve been low on food for a few days now, and she and the Witcher have been surreptitiously abstaining from their meager supply in favor of seeing their two more vulnerable members fed. 

Now, she’s regretting it. With both Ciri and Jaskier ill, she’d been driven by the hope of keeping them as healthy as possible at her own expense, but now it’s left them stranded. At full strength she might have been able to see them through this, to conjure _something, anything,_ at least until the storm passed. Instead, they’re left to the mercy of the elements and fate.

“ _Geralt_.” Jaskier’s sudden urgent tone causes her hackles to rise, has her immediately pulling to a careful stop, and she watches as Geralt does the same.

“Do you feel that?” Jaskier’s eyes are panicked and wild, and whatever it is he’s feeling, a cold sort of dread begins to curl in Yennefer’s gut at the growing terror in his voce. “What the fuck is that? Geralt, what the fuck _is_ that?”

“Jaskier?” Yennefer’s heart climbs into her throat as she watches his breathing, already strained from illness, grow rapid and shallow. 

For one moment, one awful moment, his eyes begin to go hazy and distant- that same absent look he’d worn when he’d last been so caught up in his powers he’d nearly been unable to return. And then she realizes that it’s worse.

“Oh, gods.” Jaskier’s voice is a lowly thing, wavering and thick, and as his eyes slowly roll to meet hers, the chills that wrack through Yennefer’s body have fuck all to do with the cold. 

“Melitele help me, I’m dead. I’m dead.”

She watches in horror as the Bard’s eyes begin to _cloud over_ , foggy and white as though with cataracts, watches his body go boneless and slack. Geralt’s got barely enough time to snag a handful of his cloak as he begins to slip sideways, and only some quick maneuvering on the Witcher’s part keeps Jaskier from collapsing to the ground entirely.

“Fuck. _Fuck_ .” Geralt gathers the limp body in his arms, dismayed and alarmed and _lost._ He swings down from Roach, cradling Jaskier as he falls to his knees in the snow. He gently taps at Jaskier’s cheek, desperately trying to bring him to some kind of wakefulness, but all Yennefer can see is glassy eyes and an empty expression.

“Jaskier. Jaskier, fuck, _please_.” Geralt’s voice is tight and quietly anguished as he gives the Bard a gentle shake, and Yennefer’s heart squeezes painfully in her chest when she sees that the Witcher is trying and failing to shield Jaskier’s face from the falling snow.

“He’s barely breathing. Yen, he’s barely fucking breathing,” Geralt’s eyes are blazing.

“Let me see him. _Geralt_ , let me see him.” Yennefer bullies her way into their space, vaguely aware of Ciri’s terrified questioning in the background, but she can’t afford to pay it any mind. “You have to lay him down. You can keep his head in your lap, but you’ve got to lay him down.”

After he’s done as she’s asked, Yennefer places one palm on Jaskier’s forehead and the other over his chest, preparing to search. Preparing to reach out and find where he's gone, to bring him safely back. She closes her eyes and casts herself out, and the instant she makes contact, all of her preparations go to shit.

It’s worse than nothing, worse than an emptiness. It’s a starving, _clawing_ void, hollow and aching. It’s darkness and need, the absence of anything but _hate_ and _want_ and _fury_ . It lights up her veins with a terror she’s never known, curdles her blood and sets her heart to hammering. It’s the worst thing she’s ever felt, the _worst_ that she’s ever felt, and it takes every ounce of her control to seize upon that tiny, rapidly dimming spark in the darkness that is Jaskier and _pull._

He resists her at first, flickering and stuck, trapped deep within that vacuous darkness that’s pulled him in so firmly. And it _wants_ him, she can feel it, wants to keep him and never give him back. Wants to consume. To destroy.

It takes everything that she’s got to hold onto that spark, to stop Jaskier retreating any further than he already has. All that she needs is the tiniest hint of recognition; something, _anything_ he might latch onto, and she finds it in the form of a furiously determined Witcher. She takes everything that Geralt’s feeling - his fear, his love, his concern - and _throws_ it at Jaskier. 

It’s near blinding, almost too bright for either of them to bear, but it gets the job done. The darkness retreats, squealing and hissing and hateful, long enough for the pair of them to break away. She can _feel_ Jaskier coming back to himself, feel the swooping disorientation of being slammed back into her body, the Bard following closely behind.

The victory is short lived. She stares, horrified, into Jaskier’s eyes as he clings to his Witcher, gasping for breath. They both know what they’ve just witnessed. They both understand that it’s too late to run.

That terrible, aching darkness had been the frantic seeking of an army of drowners. And as the deafening, cannon-shot sound of thick ice shattering surrounds them, Yennefer realizes with a jolt that they’d managed to find the lake, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to iamq for being the best beta and for keeping me going!!! <3
> 
> I know I've been slow as hell in writing this, but I promise you we'll get there! Thank you for being patient with me! 
> 
> Please let me know if you liked it - my anxious ass gremlin brain appreciates the serotonin like you wouldn't BELIEVE

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you as always to iamq for being an amazing beta and inspiration!
> 
> Holy fuck, I hope you guys like this.


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